MRS. BULKLEY.

Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
Make but of all your fortune one va toute:

Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few,

"I hold the odds.-Done, done, with you, with you." Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace,

My Lord,-Your Lordship misconceives the case." Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner, "I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner:" Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, Come end the contest here, and aid my party.

MISS CATLEY.

AIR.-Ballinamony.

Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,

Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack;

For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack,
When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back.
For you're always polite and attentive,
Still to amuse us inventive,

And death is your only preventive:

Your hands and your voices for me.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring

MISS CATLEY.

And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?

Agreed.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Agreed.

MISS CATLEY.

MRS. BULKLEY.

And now with late repentance,

Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence.

Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit.

Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer."

Ан me! when shall I marry me?

Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me.

He, fond youth, that could carry me,

Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

* [Preserved by Mr. Boswell, and communicated by him to the editor of the London Magazine, with the following note:

"

'SIR,-I send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer," but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called The Humors of Balamagairy, to which, he told me, he found it very difficult to adapt words; but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own handwriting, with an affectionate care. I am, Sir, your humble servant, JAMES BOSWELL."]

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:

Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover.
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.*

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT.†

HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense:

I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.

My pride forbids it ever should be said,

My heels eclips'd the honors of my head;
That I found humor in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

[Takes off his mask.

Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth;
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities.

* [This air was revived and vulgarized in a song sung by the late Mr. Johnstone in Colman's farce of "The Wags of Windsor." Mr. Moore has brought it back into good company; it is to be found in the ninth number of his "Irish Melodies."-CROKER, Boswell, vol. ii. p. 207.]

+ [These were probably the last verses written by Goldsmith. They were spoken on the 28th of April 1774, twenty-four days after his death.]

VOL IV.

And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do!
No-I will act, I'll vindicate the stage:
Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins.

Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme:

"Give me another horse! bind up my wounds !-soft-'twas but a

dream."

Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating,

If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.

'Twas thus that sop's stag, a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,

Once on the margin of a fountain stood,

And cavill'd at his image in the flood.

"The deuce confound," he cries, "these drumstick shanks,
They never have my gratitude nor thanks;
They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!
But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head.

How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!
My horns! I'm told horns are the fashion now."
Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view,
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew;
Hoicks! hark forward! came thund'ring from behind,
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind:
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length, his silly head, so priz'd before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;

Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound be saves himself, like me.

[Taking a jump through the stage doo

DRAMAS.